


Gift Horse

by en passant (corinthian)



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: M/M, Manacle Monday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2669477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corinthian/pseuds/en%20passant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trowa was finding that the problem with being ‘young’ and quiet and the significant other of a man who could bend steel with his bare hands, was that people were under the impression that either they had a nonexistent sex life — or, and this was not necessarily better, but it was funnier — they would try to drop little hints about how Trowa must work hard to <i>tame that wild stallion in bed</i>. </p><p>--</p><p>1x3, the Preventers Secret Santa gift exchange is never quite as thoughtful as it could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gift Horse

Trowa was finding that the problem with being ‘young’ and quiet and the significant other of a man who could bend steel with his bare hands, was that people were under the impression that either they had a nonexistent sex life — or, and this was not necessarily better, but it was funnier — they would try to drop little hints about how Trowa must work hard to _tame that wild stallion in bed_. He had, even, two years ago during the Preventer Christmas party, received a gag gift of a riding crop. The giver had never revealed themselves, but since Duo’s gift that year had been a set of lock picks he really had no other guesses.

All and all it wasn’t a _problem_ , per se. But he was under the constant gaze of well-meaning middle-aged men and women who felt it prudent to pass along advice. He certainly didn’t think he looked like a teenager anymore, though he had never quite broadened out in the same impressive way some of his peers, probably, had. If Trowa rolled one shoulder back and the other forward and then stretched out he could almost turn his body into a straight line, everything aligned over his slim hips. It was a good party trick for sliding down alleys or into hidden niches on ships. 

None of them had really achieved the hulk of a barreled chest or staggeringly ripped muscles. Heero and Wufei were the most solidly built, but shorter and well-grounded. They held themselves in contained stances that weren’t soft, but neither of them worked their angles to intimidation. Duo, like Trowa, knew how to do such a thing, of course. And while the years, the meals, the pseudo-peace, had added on weight and muscle to Duo there was always a softness to his face and stance that was well worn to the point of becoming. Quatre remained delicate looking, but Trowa also knew that Quatre and Duo had almost identical builds, now, only Quatre’s blanket of attitude was one of gentle welcoming.

He had not, though, seen Quatre or Duo drawn aside by another agent and a pamphlet pressed into their hand. Or, to his knowledge, had either of them been in the bathroom taking a piss and had another agent break the one urinal rule — which, Trowa didn’t care about, but it was usually a sign that _something_ was up — and start talking about safe sex, to themself. Loudly. No one talked to Heero or Wufei that way, or anything close to it, as far as Trowa could tell too. Though, Heero still had that impenetrable fortress of solitude aura and Wufei was combative towards unwanted advice. Trowa envied them both in a way, he hadn’t cultivated that kind of attitude for privacy, and until now his own tactics hadn’t been so . . . ineffective.

Trowa wasn’t exactly sure what he had ever done to deserve it. The Christmas party was coming up, however, and he was certain that between today and then he would receive at least one other tidbit of unwanted advice and the secret santa gift exchange was going to be a disaster.

“You’ve got a face on.” Duo drops down next to him at the table in the break room. “The one that says ‘I’m not thinking about anything’ but it really means ‘Duo really should leave me alone because someone is going to die on my watch today’.”

“Christmas party.” Trowa’s reply is glum. His coffee is cold and without him asking Duo tops him off and helps himself to a cup.

“Who did you get?”

“It’s _secret_ santa.”

“Well, okay, but giving gifts isn’t that hard. Hell, you could probably just buy some extra ration cards and call it a gift of nostalgia.” 

“That’s a great idea, Duo,” Trowa agrees. It’s a terrible idea, but last year Trowa had seen someone receive ration cards as a gift. He had been certain that Duo had drawn Une for his gift, however.

“You know what your problem is?”

There’s no answer to give that will matter. Trowa could make something up — he’s heard a lot over the years, and some of it would be cruel to spit back at Duo, though others would be an inside joke. Maybe something about circuses, or pilots, or black humor and war orphans — 

“You’re _nice._ ”

“My problem is that I’m nice.” There’s a skid on the top of his coffee, oil from the beans or scum from the cup not being washed thoroughly enough. Trowa swirls the coffee in his cup to break it up. “Most people prefer sharing the company of _nice_ people.” Not entirely inaccurate. 

“Polite. You say please and thank you to people. I even saw you hold a door open for someone the other day.” Duo smirks. “I gotta say, it does it make creepier when you go all cold-hearted throat-slitter on us, but that’s why you’re having trouble.”

Trowa didn’t think of himself as nice. He knew exactly what politeness would get him with any given person at any given time. People were easy to read. A please or a thank you usually kept people at arm’s length, they wouldn’t have any further reason to interact, no reason to remember him. Social niceties made the brain lazy, more or less. People were always more likely to notice something that wasn’t right, that stuck out. Which is another reason why the fact that people kept approaching him was so irksome. What had he done to stand out so much?

“Lots of people are nice, Duo.”

“Okay, how about this, if I held the door open for you, what do you think?”

“You’d probably try to shut it on me.” In fact, Duo had exactly tried to shut the door on Trowa three months ago. Admittedly, Trowa had been rather snide just moments before, but the action remained.

“And if Heero held the door open for someone?” That wasn’t something Trowa thought about. The way he and Heero interacted — here, at work — was a mix of personal and impersonal traits. There was a specific way that Heero typed, the way he would roll his shoulders when he was working hard. Trowa could always tell what kind of case Heero was working on by how fast his eyes moved across the screen. But no one was made up of entirely unique traits. Heero was no exception.

“This really isn’t your strong suit, Duo.”

“Most doors are automatic, anyway. There’s a few reasons as to why people’d be in the know about dating and sex, right?” Duo doesn’t lower his voice, he doesn’t look around or make any secret of what he’s talking about. The break room isn’t empty, but no one looks over either. The room is used at all hours of the day, from typical work hours to the times when an agent had returned from a mission, or from the waiting room upstairs, and conversations often got raunchy, quickly. “And you don’t seem like a slut.”

Ah, Duo was onto something relevant now. Trowa made sure to show he was listening more, his posture reflecting his intent.

“Me, when Bridget — that’s Agent Kulie — came by the first time to ask me if I’d ever, you know, had a proper mother figure I thought she was just messing with me. But then she came by again and told me she was worried for my health and my _heart_ and I told her I fucked my way through the alphabet almost, but I hadn’t found a ‘B’ yet. She hasn’t tried to have the sex conversation with me since.” Duo’s grin is self-satisfied. Trowa can hear the conversation in his head. Bridget had told him she was concerned with _his_ health as well and he’d just tuned her out, but then she had come around again, like clockwork, every three months with a worried expression on his face. He always brushed her off with a neutral excuse or brisk goodbye. Trowa, personally, thought that should have been well enough — he had not even been _polite_ , so Duo’s thesis was obviously busted.

“I thought you didn’t lie.”

“It’s true, I haven’t had sex with anyone who’s name starts with a ‘B’!” Duo’s smirk turns positively lewd, “But you know, Barton starts with ‘B’.”

“If you want to have sex I’ll warn you that I’ll compare you to Heero during it, in detail.” 

“How much detail?”

“Angles of descent into my ass.” He doesn’t bat an eyelash. Duo is only taken aback for a few seconds, but Trowa feels an amused spike of pride. He doesn’t often use the illusion of private information shared against other people — but it can be terribly effective when he does. And, while Heero and Trowa were both immensely private about some things, Duo should really know better. “And, I don’t think we have overlapping tastes, otherwise.”

“Don’t remind me. I’ve seen enough horror, I don’t need to know anymore about your tastes.” Duo’s dramatic shudder is put on, a little too much and Trowa feels a slight smile.

“I wasn’t even nice to Agent Kulie.” He did feel the need to say.

“At least you’ll know if she’s your secret santa. I bet if she could she’d give you _Gentle Anal Sex for Dummies._ ”

—

They had a ritual that before any event they both went to — parties, usually but the occasional mission as well — they helped each other dress. Trowa always enjoys the familiarity of a shared task, and when they had started it, years ago, it had been so there was always one last memory.

“Skip the ties, this year,” Heero presses close, then, nudges at the buttons on Trowa’s collar — the ones he had just done up — and undoes them. 

“Casual?” Trowa asks, amused at the motion, but he leans down to reflect the gesture on Heero. “Why did we wear them last year?”

Neither of them liked ties. Trowa wore them with enough ease, but given the choice he preferred something more comfortable around his neck. Heero owned more scoop neck shirts than anyone Trowa had ever met before.

“Quatre.” They had been gifted matching ties, when they first started ‘dating’, as some kind of milestone gift, from Quatre. An encouragement, probably. Trowa had been soured by the gift in a way he couldn’t explain but after a month of giving all the wrong signals to Quatre he had agreed that wearing them would be a good gesture of friendship and missed signals forgiven.

“In or out?”

“In. You?”

“Out.”

Trowa’s hands skirt the circumference of Heero’s waist, efficiently tucking his shirt tails into his slacks. Heero, in turn, does the reverse gesture on Trowa. His hands pause at the small of Trowa’s back, knuckles stroke once, and then are gone.

“Good?” Trowa asks. Heero steps back and examines him. It’s a brutal look, and a look that Trowa needs to see at least once a day, for his own peace of mind. Heero memorizes everything about the way Trowa looks in that moment. He scrutinies the small details, the buttons, the worn hem of the dress shirt, Trowa really needs to buy another one, the knowledge that if Trowa lifts the hem of his pants he is wearing mismatched socks — one is true black, the other a shade too light to be. He shuts his eyes and then opens them, nods, and easy private smile showing on his face.

“Good.” And he gestures down at himself. Trowa’s own study of Heero is less openly intense. He had not, over the years, found it productive to show his own brutality so openly. Instead his gaze is soft and constantly moving. His eyes flick over the curve of Heero’s shoulders under the fabric of his shirt, the way he plants himself in his dress shoes, like they’re combat boots. Trowa takes note that he wrinkled Heero’s shirt a little too much on the leftside, that the top button of Heero’s shirt needs to be replaced and — of course — he commits Heero’s smile to memory.

Instead of answering, Trowa reaches out and catches Heero’s hand in his own. Their fingers lace together, break apart, twist and configure shapes. They settle on a loose handshake that looks more like a modified rescuer’s hand hold.

“I’ve got the gifts,” Heero says.

“I’ll drive.”

—

The party is held in the lower break room in the office. It’s the one furthest away from the cots kept at work for sleep and just because it’s the holidays it doesn’t mean the Preventers aren’t working. As usual it starts out with drinks, then food, then more drinks then mingling and gift giving. There’s no organization to the secret santa, just the gifts piled on a table and people drift by to get theirs and move to the corner to open it.

It’s said that began because agents of all walks of life didn’t really want to open a gift that either scared them shitless or was too perfect and personal in front of others. A sentiment that Trowa appreciated.

Duo chats with them for a bit, but then he skips off to talk to Agent Bower. Trowa makes some kind of noise in the back of his throat and Heero understands. They split so Trowa can talk to Wufei and Heero makes his round of the room. In the time it takes Heero to walk the perimeter of the room and give a nod to anyone who matters, Trowa slips Wufei a small gift, a one-armed hug and they exchange mission dates. Their schedules rarely align. Wufei gifts Trowa a book of recipes. Trowa’s gift, which Wufei won’t open until the next day as is their habit, is an IOU from a swordsmith on Earth.

Heero grabs their gifts off the secret santa table. The gifts they left are almost identical gun holsters wrapped in blue paper. Impersonal and practical, the perfect kind of secret santa gift, they both agree.

“Ration cards.” Heero says, before he opens his small envelope and reveals — ration cards. 

Trowa carefully slides his fingers under the tape on the paper on his gift. It’s a small box, which is reassuring, since it’s too light to be a book on gentle anal sex. Under the paper is a small white box, perfect to hold a softball, but when he shifts it in his hands he hears a muted clink.

Inside the box is a pair of novelty handcuffs.

“Ah.” Trowa says.

Heero looks over, his eyebrows lift in what could be surprise but Trowa knows it’s amusement. They already owned handcuffs, of much higher quality, is what Heero was probably thinking. The flimsy things in the box had far too long of a chain between the cuffs, and the hinges were weak. Trowa could probably bend them, say nothing of Heero.

“How thoughtful.” Trowa says, dryly. His eyes meet Heero’s. There’s a little crease above the left corner of Heero’s mouth, much like the beginnings of a laugh. The little box and its cuffs are tossed aside.

Trowa catches Heero’s wrists, one in each hand and firmly circles them. He doesn’t keep his pressure gentle, and even though he doesn’t share Heero’s inhuman strength he can hang from his fingertips long enough for two guard shifts to pass.

“Unnecessary, though?” Heero replies. His expression is back to stoic, but his pupils are wide and welcome Trowa in.

It only takes one yank to draw Heero closer, to make him stumble and bring his familiar weight against Trowa. “Not the worst gift I’ve received.” 

They stay that way. Heero can kiss the exposed skin at the v of Trowa’s collar, but Trowa is left with kissing Heero’s hair. Heero kisses with his teeth, marking the skin aggressively.

But Trowa only releases Heero’s wrists when he feels the twitch in the vein. Heero’s hands have gone pale by two shades, but the urgency with which he draws Trowa out of the party has nothing to do with pain.


End file.
